


Finale

by Outofangband



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, I have some rather in depth headcanons about this I wasn't able to fully explore but soon I hope, It's a reference to an earlier currently unpublished work, Medical Abuses, Yes there is a reason Morgoth calls Maedhros 'little bird'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 19:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17873600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outofangband/pseuds/Outofangband
Summary: (dark piece based on a prompt I received on Tumblr where this is also posted. Maedhros witnesses the terrible fate of one of his warriors. Full summery in notes!)





	Finale

**Author's Note:**

> (From a prompt I was given on Tumblr where this is also posted   
>  “I’m so glad I found your blog. I have this dark/heavy HC that I really wanted someone to write up. I asked the lovely @thearrogantemu, but they said they did not have experience with graphic torture scenes. It seems like that’s your specialty! If you do ficlet prompts… Morgoth forced Maedhros to watch an elf (one of his own warriors, to make it worse) being turned into an orc. Then, they made the newly formed orc torture Maedhros while Morgoth and Sauron stood there and laughed at his misery.” )  
> (thank you Anonymous Being named Savannah!)

   “I’d look more worried if I were you,” the guard growled to Maedhros as he pushed him along by the scruff of his neck, “My Master looks pleased. That won’t bode well for you, will it?” He laughed gruffly, shoving Maedhros particularly hard. Maedhros grit his teeth, stopping himself from stumbling but he offers no argument. If past experiences were anything to go by, this was very much true. Slightly annoyed by the stubborn elf’s lack of reaction to the taunts, the guard dug his nails into the bruised skin around his neck and remained silent for the rest of the short walk up to the chambers of the Dark Lord.   
    The doors opened into a large, open room with some of the only windows in the main parts of the fortress though they were too high for even Maedhros to see out of. The Dark Foe stood with his back to the doors, his hands at his sides in a gesture of mocking welcome.   
    “My little bird,” he said softly, stretching out a claw like hand to Maedhros and the guard. Within moments, the Vala’s long fingers were entangled in his hair. Maedhros suppressed a shudder.   
    “There is something I have been wanting to show you for quite some time, little one,” the Dark Foe whispers, pulling Maedhros forward and out of the guard’s grasp, dismissing the latter with a wave of his other hand. Maedhros remained silent. It too so much energy to keep his wits about while so close to his enemy. The mere prescense of the Moringotto, let alone his touch, filled him with a deep, cold dread. The door slammed shut behind the guard, startling Maedhros visibly enough that the Vala laughed quietly. He replaced the hand in Maedhros’s hair to rest on his shoulder, gently but firmly leading him to the passage out of the other side of the room. Neither’s footsteps made a sound on the cold stone floor.   
    It was several minutes down this passageway before Maedhros could be sure he had not yet gone down this root. His face started to feel warm like it did when he was locked in the dungeons close to the underground forges. Somewhere in the distant there was a faint wailing sound that rung in his ears. Apprehension rises in him but he does not dare to ask where they are going.   
   Ten minutes later they arrive in another open room, this time filled with many strange devices, all of which pulling at Maedhros’s attention. His eyes have darted fearfully over tables and chests of drawers when finally they arrive at the opposite wall and his heart clenches. A thin, naked figure is chained there, back to him and face pressed against the rough stone. Maedhros bites his lip to keep a strangled gasp inside but the look on his face gives enough away. The Vala laughs again, pausing ten or so paces away from the bound elf.   
    “Mairon,” he calls softly, “We are ready to begin.” Maedhros cannot tear his eyes away from the other prisoner but soon the Maia comes to stand next to them, a look of polite curiosity on his unnaturally handsome face.   
   “Speak,” the Moringotto says quietly to Maedhros, his fingers now running absentmindedly through the elf’s hair.   
    “ _What_?” Maedhros gasps out, torn between fear and annoyance. The Vala nods to the prisoner who starts to twist and thrash upon hearing Maedhros’s voice.   
    “Nelyo?” she pants, her voice clearly pained and exhausted.   
“ _Celumë_ ,” Maedhros whispers, instantly cursing himself. From the moment he had laid eyes on the captive, he had known what was familiar about her and yet…there were so many tricks here, he could not have stopped himself from hoping. He regrets saying her name almost at once. He should not have given his enemies anything to use. Anything they can use is a weapon, no matter how small or useless. Morgoth is watching him closely, his lips curling into a sneer. He seems to have guessed what the elf is thinking.   
    “Do not worry, little bird,” he says softly, “Her name is no longer of importance. I have not brought you here to help to gain information. She has proven herself useless for that. And besides, I assumed you knew of her.”  He dangles a scrap of fabric bearing the Fëanorian crest in front of Maedhros’s eyes. Something warm and dangerous rises in Maedhros’s chest and he swallows with effort.   
   “Then  _what do you want_?” he whispers. Morgoth laughs louder this time, the sound echoing through the chambers and earning a shudder from Maedhros and a strangled sob from the elleth chained to the wall.   
   “That, my dear Fëanorian, is exactly what I wanted to show you.” He moves to stand behind Maedhros, placing one hand on each of his shoulders in a mockingly protective manner.   
“You see,” his lips are just against the elf’s ears now. Maedhros digs his nails into his palms to try and restrain from pulling away, “This process takes so long, it would be quite unfair to have you watch all of it. Mairon would not like to have his work so heavily observed and besides, much of it is quite crude. But the final few steps, well, they are quite drastic. Radical almost. And you will learn quite a lot from them.” The thought that he has no idea what Morgoth is talking about flickers through Maedhros’s mind as his eyes move from the elven warrior to Mairon and back to the ground.   
    “Begin,” Morgoth says to his lieutenant who steps behind Celumë, holding a knife in hand. Maedhros closes his eyes. The Vala’s fingers press into his cheeks.   
“Look,” he murmurs to him, “Look or I will have Mairon pause to sew your eyes open.” Maedhros does not fear physical pain as much as he used to but there is no point in suffering such mutilation now, not if there is an option. Mairon’s knife drags along the elleth’s back. She screams, seeming to lose all composure. Still standing behind him, Morgoth caresses Maedhros’s face in time to her sobs.   
“Keep your eyes open, my little bird, this is important.” Maedhros feels bile rise in his throat and tears burn in his eyes. The knife is peeling away layers of flesh now. They seem unnaturally thin and dry as they fall to the ground. The observation makes Maedhros’s stomach curl.   
    Celumë is still screaming. Mairon seems to have reached yet another layer of skin. Her back is red and raw looking. But, instead of blood starting to form as Maedhros had been expecting, an odd, pale formation was starting to spread over the exposed flesh of her shoulders.   
    “I have already added the necessary essence,” Mairon informs Morgoth, “So the process shall be done quite soon.” Maedhros doesn’t take the time to wonder just now what the rest of the process entails. Celumë has stopped screaming. Her sobs are hiccupy gasps and her long, dark hair has started to fall out.   
    “Really, the bodies of your kin are so fragile,” Morgoth muses in Maedhros’s ear, “So much of what needs to be done for the, ah, transformations hardly leaves a mark. And then, a little is peeled away and you will fall apart.” Maedhros barely understands this. He is looking at Celumë’s hands. They had been bruised before, her fingers bent in odd angles but now, the odd formation on her back and shoulders had spread down her arms, making almost like a webbing between her fingers. Maedhros finds himself hoping that the process, whatever it is, has begun to effect her brain as well. She should not know this, should not be aware for this. He lets his own tears fall now.   
    It is nearly half an hour later when Mairon deems the transformation complete. He undoes the chains on Celumë’s limbs and she falls to the ground.  _Perhaps she is dead_ , Maedhros hopes,  _if death will be anything of a mercy._ But no. The Maia prods her with his foot and she stirs feebly, getting to her feet in a matter of minutes. Maedhros cannot suppress a gasp this time. He had not yet seen her facing him. It was difficult to say what was inflicted during the torture she had endured prior to this meeting and what was the result of the final parts of her transformation but there is little recognizable in her so recently familiar face. Even her posture seems odd, pained. Mairon speaks a few harsh words that make Maedhros flinch, though he does not  understand them. Celumë (for he does not know what else to call her in his mind) looks up questioningly like a dog who has heard a learned command. Vaguely, Maedhros both hears and feels Morgoth laughing and knows that whatever was said will be at his expense. Nothing more can be done at Celumë’s, after all. And indeed, he is pushed forward moments later so he is nearly face to face with his old companion. Mairon speaks again, the sound rapping against Maedhros’s ears and Celumë reaches out with her horrible hands to grip Maedhros’s throat. This is done so quickly, especially for a weak and starved creature, that Maedhros has no time to react. He finds himself pushed brutally against the other wall, hitting his head against it. There is laughter dancing around him now. Perhaps even Celumë is laughing too. Maedhros had not expected  _this_  part of the change to be so quick. Perhaps it is shock, or perhaps obedience to Mairon’s horrible words brought with it some form of relief. Maedhros has no time to ponder this. He can barely breathe, can barely keep his eyes open.   
“I am sorry,” he murmurs, reaching out to scratch the other beings face, giving himself a moment free to breathe before he collapses to the ground.


End file.
